


Web

by flammablehat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bondage, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat/pseuds/flammablehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why might a spider keep his prey?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Web

**Author's Note:**

> Written for wildcatsprstr_14's [Merlin Frottage Fest](http://wldcatsprstr-14.livejournal.com/86627.html).

The first things to come off when he walked inside were the gloves, lambskin slapping gently onto the little entryway table where he tossed them, one – and then the other. The cravat followed. He picked at it absently while looking out over the city from his picture window, mind wandering through the curling smoke and smog and the sounds of industry filtering up from the narrow streets below. A boy in a cap hawked the evening edition on the corner, indifferent to the sooty men who jostled him on their way to and from the foundries, the pubs, the docks. A sparrow’s voice in a flock of crows.

A muted shuffle turned Merlin from both his absentminded reverie and the view, smiling as the troublesome knot around his neck loosened.

“I’m sorry, have I neglected you?” he teased, threading his long fingers through Arthur’s hair, brassy at temples and forehead with sweat. The flat did warm to an uncomfortable degree during the height of the afternoon.

Arthur said nothing.

“Dinner in an hour,” Merlin hummed, giving Arthur a contemplative squeeze at his nape. He walked away, then, towards the solarium, trailing discarded silk and linen and leather behind him.

~***~

Arthur was just where Merlin left him when he returned, carrying a footed bowl of raspberries. Naturally.

Merlin palmed his naked flank when he approached, fingers briefly exploring the cut of muscle around Arthur’s hip that drew a calligrapher’s stroke of shadow to his groin. He set the berries down on a side table.

A soft cloth from the cupboard in the washroom materialized with a shallow white bowl of warm water. With this, Merlin scrubbed through the unkempt mess of Arthur’s hair, using careful, measured strokes. He watched each strand darken to unlacquered gold, settle with the soothing weight of water into smooth lines. Grit and silt filtered down Arthur’s face under Merlin’s ministrations; the cloth remained fresh and soft.

He swept the grime from Arthur’s brow and eyes with particular care, admiring the damp clusters of pale lashes and the straight, narrow bridge of his nose. He moved on to broad, strong shoulders, skimming his lips along the trail laid by his hands, picking up the fine tremors quaking like thunderstorms under Arthur’s skin. Finishing the bath at the arches of Arthur’s feet, Merlin began his attentions again from his position on his knees with a fine pot of saddle oil, using his fingers to treat the leather cuffs around ankles and wrists, the bands at thighs, chest, arms and neck. Arthur bore it all with perfect stillness.

Satisfied, Merlin swiped at his own brow and danced his fingers up the seam of Arthur’s back, reaching across him to pluck a berry from its fellows with his other hand. The fruit was soft and crisply flavorful, bright on his tongue and seasoned by traces of pungent oil – plush when he sank his fingers into the bowl to cup a second handful.

Though he didn’t have much range of movement, Arthur managed to turn his head away from the offer of Merlin’s palm. His pale hands appeared bloodstained, like they cradled a crushed heart.

“You need to eat, Arthur,” Merlin said, frowning.

Arthur stared straight ahead. At the D-rings bolted into the wall. At the traces lashed to the D-rings.

Merlin turned away, let the berries tumble back into the bowl. Rinsed his hands in the same water he’d cleaned Arthur with. It swirled pink (like blood, _like blood_ ) and the cloth came away stained.

~***~

In the modified walk-in closet where Arthur stood chained there were five walls. The doors had long been removed before Arthur came to stand beneath them; the shape of the space resembled an octagon with its bottom third sheared away. On the far wall, the one Arthur faced, hung nothing but an ornate, full-length mirror.

The area was sectioned into pieces by leather and iron – wrapped chains linking wall to cuff , cuff to wall. Suspended by a combination of mathematics and forethought, there was not an inch of give allowed for the unfortunate fly caught in the center of such a web.

Thunder rumbled above the elaborate paneled ceiling. The image of Arthur bound, naked and alert, flickered in the mirror in a flash of lightning. Between one thunderclap and the next he was no longer alone, Merlin sidling up to him on noiseless feet.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, low and intimate into the darkness. If he was about to say more, it was lost in another roll of thunder. He kept his silence when he pressed intent kisses to Arthur’s nape, scattered across his shoulders and as far as his jaw before Arthur jerked, leather squeaking in protest. Merlin paused, but didn’t pull away, pressing closer with his body instead. The length of his cock settled neatly into the curve of Arthur’s arse, hot like an iron brand against his skin.

The light was a miserly thing in the hall, the little of it that glowed through the window cast long, amorphous shadows, obscuring the edges of the world. A candle bloomed to life in a wall sconce, and then another. Enough that the sticky gleam of wetness on the tip of Merlin’s prick could be seen, dragging at the small of Arthur’s back, centered between the twin divots over the rounds of his cheeks. Breath catching, Merlin used his thumbs to spread Arthur around him, pressing closer and sliding more firmly into the cradle of his body. He didn’t look up at the mirror, didn’t watch Arthur’s face.

The scent of saddle oil intensified to noticeable levels when it hit the warmth of their skin. Arthur went rigid almost the instant it slid between his crease, viscous and warm and slick where Merlin shifted against him.

“Shhh,” Merlin soothed. His fingers left slippery trails over Arthur’s ribs, gentling. And then he pushed, close, oil easing his glide, up and then down, and again, the air leaving his lungs in a quiet whoosh. More oil, more thick, effortless friction; it dripped down onto Arthur’s calves and smeared under their bare feet.

Merlin was quiet, testing himself with short, slow pulls against the firm, soft flesh of Arthur’s backside, heart pounding when he deliberately caught the crown of his cock against the puckered gather of Arthur’s hole. Once, twice, again, then shifting into long, smooth thrusts that carried him from perineum to tailbone. His fingers trembled on Arthur’s shoulders, which trembled back their own reply.

Outside, the air cracked with thunder, followed shortly by a whiplash of lightning. The storm was upon them, whipping wind and rain into the picture window so it looked as though nothing separated them from the tempest but the tenuous bubble in which they stood.

Merlin dropped his hands to Arthur’s hips, gripping like he meant to keep Arthur close, to pull him back from some invisible precipice. His breathing broke and stuttered around the dam of his gritted teeth, his forehead coming to rest at the base of Arthur’s skull. Each snap of his hips seemed to magnify the wet slip of their skin, a rhythm at odds with the inconsistent volleys of pellet-like rain and Merlin’s own labored gasps.

He stilled abruptly, using his hand to wedge the head of his prick against Arthur’s hole, rubbing in ever-tightening circles over and over and over until he stiffened, biting back a thin cry, holding himself as still and close as possible until a thin thread of his release escaped the clutch of Arthur’s body and dribbled back onto his fingers.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Arthur snarled, ragged and vicious when Merlin’s hand slipped its mooring on his hip, close enough to brush the stiff arc of his cock.

“Don’t what?” Merlin said, the warm, round tone of laughter surfacing from somewhere deep in his chest. In an instant the candles guttered and died; the lightning flickered and went out, as though all the light in the world had been stolen at once, sealed away somewhere unreachable.

When their gazes met over Arthur’s shoulder in the glass, the blaze in Merlin’s eyes was visible even through the pitch.

 **End.**


End file.
